


He'd Say

by dawnstruck



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Character Study, Gen, M/M, Mentions of homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:09:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a voice in Dean's head that sounds like his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He'd Say

One thought that had been dangling over Dean's head like the sword of Damocles for as long as he can remember, swaying his decisions at ever turn, every fork in the road, is this:

What would dad say?

Not 'What would dad do?' because what John Winchester would do himself and what he would tell his son were two vastly different things.

Still, it was an easy manner to get through life, without having to second-guess everything, without getting hung up on questions that only made him turn in circles. It gave him a purpose.

 

Every morning when Dean was weary with more than just bone-deep exhaustion, he asked himself, What woul dad say?

Dad would say, _Get your ass outta bed, boy._ Dad would say, _There are people dying out there while you are sleeping off your hangover._

Every evening when he thought, this was it, he could not take it anymore, he would wonder, what would dad say? 

Dad would say, _Don't waste your breath on crying, kid._ Dad would say, _Get yourself another beer, son._

It helped. It kept Dean going when he had no other reason to.

 

There was one order, however, that overruled everything else.

Dad would say, _Look after your little brother, boy._ Dad would say, _Sell your soul to save Sam._

In every burning building and on every crossroads, no matter at what cost.

So Dean did, over and over, literally and figuratively, in every manner possible, because it was the only thing he knew how to do.

His whole world revolved around it.

_Look after your little brother. Don't let the monsters get to him. Don't let him find out what we do. Keep an eye on him. Don't leave him alone. Make sure he's in bed by seven. Remember to cook him dinner. Don't let him out of your sight. Don't let him out of your sight._

Things always went to shit when Dean didn't follow the rules. He'd learnt that the hard way.

 

Back when Dad had still been alive, when it had been just the three of them, there had been times when Dean disobeyed because for once he knew what was best.

Dad had pulled him close and told him _, Don't let him run off to college, son._ Dad had leaned in and whispered, _One day you might have to kill Sammy_ , before smiling at him with tears in his eyes.

But Dean did let Sam run off and Dean did not kill him, because he knew it was the right thing to do. Because he knew how to handle his brother, because he had raised him. 

 

But Sam's not a child anymore. He does not need a diaper change or help with his homework. He's a grown man who makes his own decisions and those usually have nothing to do with what Dad would say.

 

Sam says Dean should do the same. Sam says, _He is dead, Dean, you can't let him haunt you forever,_ and Dean grins and shrugs and acts like he has no idea what he is talking about, although he really, really does.

 

 _When you're a jet, you're a jet all the way,_ he remembers humming to himself when they had been on a stake-out, Dean just turned seventeen, _From your first cigarette to your last dying' day._

 _Stop that,_ Dad had hissed, throwing him an annoyed look.

Back then, Dean had told himself it was only because they were trying to get a glimpse of a werewolf without spooking him, not for any other reason.

 

Still, Dean can't quite shake off the voice that keeps nagging at the egde of his consciousness, reminding him of everything that could go wrong, all his failings, all his short-comings. He does not quench it, though, because more often than not, it's useful.

Some of it are hunters' rules, important for survival.

_Clean your guns. Sleep with a knife under your pillow. Watch out for demonic signs. Don't get in trouble with the orderlies. Dont leave any traces behind. Never trust anyone._

Some are just old habits and old habits die hard.

_Keep that car in order. Always use a condom. Choose the cheapest motel in town. Buy groceries past their expiry date. Don't do drugs. Never trust anyone._

Some are so deeply ingrained in him that whenever Dean does the opposite he catches himself glancing over his shoulder, expecting dad to be watching him.

_Don't sympathize with monsters. Don't tell anyone the truth. Always be on the move._

_Never trust anyone._

 

Sometimes Sam throws him these looks, like pity and disappointment and sympathy all rolled into one. Usually, that happens when they talk about the past.

Sam's sentences start with things like “When I was at Stanford“, “In my Spanish class“ and “Jess and I always“.

Dean's sentences start with “Me 'n' Dad“, “that ghost of the drowned girl“ and “that's when I broke my ankle and I had to stay at Caleb's“.

Dean doesn't see anything wrong with that, so he stares at his brother in a 'What gives?'-kind of way until Sam sigh and turns away. 

 

There are many things John Winchester has taught his sons.

Video games are for nerds. Soap operas are for women. Musicals are for gays. Stuffed toys are for sissys. 

A real man does not show his pain. A real man does not get scared.

 

“Could you stop eating like that?“ Sam asks in annoyance, pointedly staring at the ketchup that is dripping down Dean's chin.

“Could you stop looking like that?“ Dean counters easily, while the voice in his head says, _Eat up, boy. We're not stopping until we've reached Montana._

 

He kept his copy 'The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe' hidden at Pastor Jim's, under the mattress of his usual bed, reading it quietly to Sam when he was still too young to read himself. They stopped doing that once Dean was old enough to help Dad on hunts.

 

John had a list of criteria on how to judge people for there were a lot of people to judge:

Men who did not serve in the army to defend their country.

Youths who did not respect their elders.

Adults who spent their time with kids' stuff. 

Priests who got overly preachy.

Girls who dressed skankily.

Divorced people. Gay people. Immature people. Pacifists, feminists, communists. Politicians, prostitutes, church-goers.

It was a long, long list and Dean tried his damnest to never end up on it in way, whether directly or by association.

 

He faintly remembers an ugly teddy bear his mom had sewn for him when she was pregnant with Sam. He'd clutched it to his chest when he heard mommy screaming in the middle of the night, and it fell to the floor when daddy pressed the baby into his arms instead and told him to run.

Afterwards, Dad gave them other toys, metal cars and tiny soldiers and legos that Dean had to pluck out of Sammy's mouth so he wouldn't choke on them.

Dean had missed his teddy, but luckily Sammy hadn't minded being cuddled instead, happily holding wherever they went.

Sammy's hand had been small and warm and chubby. He doesn't recall John's hand but he imagines that it must've been big and rough and strong from all the weapons he handled.

 

 _It's just you an' me now, son,_ Dad had said after it became apparent that Sam was gone for good, _We're a team. We're family._

Two weeks later, he bought a new truck because the Impala was getting too old.

 _I can't depend on her anymore,_ he'd said and tossed Dean the keys, _You can have her._

Then he'd taken his shiny, black truck and driven off into the opposite direction.

Dean had gotten behind the wheel of the car that contained his entire childhood and wondered whether he should just drive it off the next cliff.

 

Idly, he wonders what dad would say to this, though he knows the answer all to well.

He'd say, _Don't fall in love, boy._ He'd say, _Don't fraternize with the enemy, Dean._ He'd say, T _his isn't how I raised you._

But that's the thing, isn't it?

John Winchester had not raised his sons. They had raised themselves.

 

Admittedly, Dean hadn't known what Sam would say. 

Funnily enough, however, Sam hadn't said anything at all.

He'd huffed and smiled and rolled his eyes in a distinct 'Finally'-way. He had shrugged and clapped him on the shoulder and acted like it was no big deal.

 

“What are you thinking of?“ Cas asks him despite the fact that he could just grasp the knowledge of out of Dean's head as easy as that, read his mind like an open book like he did when they first met.

 

Dad would say, _He's not human, son._ He'd say, _He's back-stabbed you once, he'll do it again. He pulled you out of hell, he can throw you back in._

 

“Nothing,“ Dean answers and smiles slowly.

 

The voice in the back of his head falls blissfully silent.

 


End file.
